


in our bedroom after the war

by oceanhearted



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Character Study, Dissociation, Families of Choice, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Multi, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Pining, Post-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker Spoilers, Survivor Guilt, i would call this projection: the fanfiction but that tag should be tacked onto all of my writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanhearted/pseuds/oceanhearted
Summary: [Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker Spoilers]After the fall of the Final Order, Poe Dameron struggles with adjusting to a life of normalcy.
Relationships: Poe Dameron & Finn & Rey, Poe Dameron/Finn/Rey
Comments: 5
Kudos: 56





	in our bedroom after the war

**Author's Note:**

> this took me too long (read: months) to write, so i apologise if there are any inconsistencies in that regard.
> 
> that being said, content warnings: ptsd—including (discussions of) death, dissociation, flashbacks, grief, nightmares, panic attacks, self destructive behaviour (there is no explicit self harm/suicide), survivor's guilt, trauma, etc; and, of course, tros spoilers. title is from [in our bedroom after the war by stars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eyP_jjv_udQ).

_We won, or we think we did_ _  
__When you went away, you were just a kid_ _  
__And if you lost it all, and you lost it_ _  
__Well, we'll still be there when your war is over_

—

Poe's earliest memory is waking up in a tangle of limbs.

Looking back at it, he knows it’s so strikingly cemented in his mind because his parents, rarely ever at his side, are present with him during the moment; he’s pressed in-between his parents’ hold, a hand cradled in his mother’s own, his face nuzzled against his father’s side. They’re draped in a blanket of warmth and _safety_ from the sunlight trickling into his parents’ bedroom; it seemed as if there was no longer a war happening in the grander scheme of things, beyond the horizon the two of them would soon disappear back into; and that the moment he was suspended in could last forever.

Then they're called to fight in the Battle of Endor, of course, and things never return to that point in time again. He eventually learns never to expect it to.

* * *

When Kylo Ren probes his thoughts, the force’s tendrils dig itself into the deepest crevices of his mind, forces him to confront his worst memories, everything he’s so perfectly compartmentalised under lock and key—

—the way his knees lock and the world narrows and collapses around him when his father first breaks the news to him; the sheer disbelief which overwhelms him, first, the _denial,_ doing everything he can to reject, to _will away_ the fact that _your mother is no longer_ —

—the map to Skywalker—

—the first time he watches a crewmate’s ship burst into flames as it descends, nothing but panicked scrambling and a scream filling his intercom before it’s all-too abruptly cut off; by now Poe’s no stranger to death and loss, of course, but to experience it in such a _visceral_ manner, to be reminded that it lurks at every turn in this, this _war—_

—the map to Skywalker—

—holding a fellow Resistance member’s hand in his own as he feels it slowly growing cold and limp, all while he’s telling them _c’mon, you gotta get up, we can get you some help but you gotta get up_ and others are pulling at his shoulders and telling him to _c'mon_ and _we need to_ _gogogo_ before First Order troops reach them but how could he when this person took a shot for him and he realises that he doesn’t even know their name—

— _the map to Skywalker is_ —

He cracks, of course.

It’s worse than any of the physical torture the Stormtroopers inflict on him before this; the first time he experiences in the flesh how _evil_ the force could be, in the wrong hands. He always knew it to be a symbol of _hope_ —a guiding beacon of the Resistance, a silent promise that the cause they all fought so valiantly for wouldn’t end up in vain.

For the first time, he finds himself _afraid_ of it.

He’s dead exhausted, afterwards, far too much for the implications of this incident to sink itself into his psyche for now. He can tell himself that anyone would break down however, under similar circumstances; but he would never, ever stop berating himself for giving the final hope of the Resistance away.

* * *

And then, FN-2187 saves him.

And then, although he doesn’t know it yet, everything changes.

* * *

He doesn’t realise how much he misses—he _craves_ intimacy until he really comes to know Finn.

He imagines that Finn has likely never quite experienced intimacy before, what with his days in the First Order; but the way it comes to him is so natural, so _genuine,_ Poe doesn’t think the other man even realises it. Every time they found each other, their fingers unravel or they part from their hugs always a second too soon, Poe thinks, and he quietly savours the warmth that lingers afterwards, finding any excuse to reenact it with the other man—he's lucky Finn's always so eager to reciprocate.

(All of this makes his heart _pitter-patter_ unevenly against his chest in the way only the two of them seem to be able to make it.)

Now Finn’s hand slips into Poe’s so simply, yet so steady and firm; of course Poe doesn’t fight it. Poe can’t help squeezing his hand in return, the smallest yet only comfort he can offer, and hopes that it gets through to the other man. But it doesn’t, of course, because his heart’s with Rey—Rey, who led them to Exegol all on her own; who, for all they know, stood against Palpatine all on her own; in the chaos of everyone celebrating the collapse of the Final Order and the end, the _victory_ of a decades-old war, Rey is nowhere to be seen, and Poe’s heart can’t help being with her, too.

But she eventually returns, of course, as she always does, as they know she will; Poe spots her first, descending from Luke Skywalker's X-Wing, and it takes awhile for them to navigate through the crowd to reach one another, BB-8 eagerly paving their way. The droid's the one who rolls up to her first, as small and agile as it is, and Rey takes so much care in addressing BB-8 that the sight makes Poe’s heart lift in his chest. Then their gazes meet; Poe nudges Finn at her direction, the man immediately perking up, and the two of them break into a sprint towards her; the ensuing hug is the strongest Poe’s ever felt tethered onto the ground. 

For once, he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else, ever.

* * *

Things take awhile to settle. Any celebration, to Poe, is too tinted with the losses that paved all of their ways there, and while many mentioned how _it was what they would have wanted_ _—_ to which Poe knew and could never doubt, of course— the pilot still feels a little sick of it all, especially watching Snap's wife slip away from the commotion silently, condolence after condolence amidst all of the cheer no doubt wearing her down. He couldn't possibly imagine how she felt, losing someone beyond a teammate (he _could,_ of course, but given the choice he'd much rather not put himself in those shoes). Questions of the inevitable _after_ plagues him as well, and it's the last thing he needs on his mind right now.

He catches the opportunity of reprieve from all the hugs and drinks everyone has to offer from watching Rey being hounded by overexcited Resistance members (all in good faith, of course, but they don’t seem to notice the way she’s looking a little claustrophobic), and Finn trying to find a discreet way to reach her; Poe quickly slips between all of the clamour, looping his (singular, uninjured) arm around Rey and awkwardly shouldering Finn forward, essentially strong-arming them out of the crowd.

“Let’s get outta here,” he says in a low voice; Finn and Rey don’t need to be told twice to follow suit.

Strangely enough, they’re laughing and pushing against each other as they escape the crowd, invigorated. Poe feels _alive_ with them, livelier than he could ever feel with anyone else; and a part of him is relieved that the other two seem to feel the same way, with him, as if he ever needed to cast doubt over the worth of his company with them. The two of them look at him like he’s their entire _galaxy_ —there’s so much in the great expanse to discover, still, and yet they choose _him_ of all people to direct those gazes to.

(God, what did he even do to _deserve_ them?)

They eventually find themselves huddled into the Millennium Falcon, of course, because where else would they go? Their banter simmers down into small talk, and then a comforting silence drapes over the three of them; quietly watching a skyline that had never seemed so radiant and illuminating, so _hopeful_ before this. 

(Until now, _next to them)_.

“I almost thought you wouldn’t make it,” Finn eventually breaks the silence, and Poe knows the tacked-on _almost_ is meant as an empty consolation to Rey. “I thought I—I thought I felt you fade. I was scared.” He doesn't know what Finn means by this, but he stays silent.

Rey’s smile falters, and she lowers her gaze. “I did,” she admits, which immediately draws the other two’s attention. “I did— _fade,"_ she settles on Finn’s choice of words, “until he saved me.”

Both Finn and Poe’s expressions harden. “Ren?” Poe asks, but Rey shakes her head.

“No, not Ren. It was—it was _Ben,”_ she emphasises. “He saved me—Leia helped him see the light, but then he—he—”

Her voice catches in her throat, and she shuts her eyes tight, as if fighting back tears. She doesn’t need to finish her sentence. Finn immediately draws her close, and Rey doesn’t resist him, hiding her face against his chest; Poe inches closer towards them, in turn holding the two of them close, hoping to give them some semblance of comfort, something in the back of his mind realising how small, how vulnerable his friends feel like this, and his desire to protect the both of them tenfold. He feels the corners of his own eyes begin to sting; something welling up inside his chest, pushing against his ribs, threatening to spill out all at once.

For the first time since they returned, the three of them mourn.

* * *

Even with the war over, the Resistance’s work never ends.

If he’s honest with himself, Poe never thought that the Resistance would’ve made it this far; during his lifetime, at least. He never had the time to think about settling down; even then, it never seemed his style. He rid himself of that notion far too long ago, after all. Only the Resistance’s cause had ran through his blood; all of the loss and victory it entailed kept him moving forward at every misstep.

But now that it was over— _definitively_ over—Poe just feels… _tired,_ more tired than he’s ever been. He thinks—no, he _knows_ it begins to show in the way he continues to lead the others, in the way he needs to be corrected over the slightest of details and errors, the way he finds himself zoning out in important meetings. He doesn’t know how Finn continues to hold himself together, as his partner-in-command; perhaps finally having Rey more permanently at his side helped, the two glued together at the hip whenever they could be (their hands constantly intertwined, but Poe pretends he doesn’t notice, ignores the way his chest knots— _for what?_ —at the sight).

Maybe Poe just isn't meant for this. He still can’t wrap his head around how Leia had trusted him as acting General, especially after his colossal series of fuck-ups that led to the Battle of Crait _(dead heroes, no leaders,_ her words ring in his ears). He only bumbled about without screwing things up even further because Finn was at his side, he thinks to himself, and even then he must’ve come close, he did come close _(dead heroes)._ Now, more than ever, he needs her guidance, but that's not how things work—for him, at least.

(She would tell him that he doesn't. Maybe he just misses her.)

Now that the war’s over, he finds his composure, his _competence_ completely slipping between his grasp.

Maz notices, because of course she does. She’s been in it longer than he has, longer than a good number of them have—so when she offers to take the position from him ("just for awhile,” she tells him, which he knows translates to _before you make even more a fool of yourself in front of everyone else and until you get your shit back together)_ they both know his show of reluctance is just, well, a _show._

 _(Fuck,_ he misses her.)

“I’ve got just the thing for you,” Maz tells him. She’s cobbled a bit of land together (“not for free, of course, even heroes need to pay their dues—but it’s yours if you want it”), a little cottage in its square, almost too good to be true. “It’s a little too big for just one person, though.”

She thinks of everything, of course. He doesn’t need to ask them twice.

* * *

It’s strange, at first; but nowadays, everything tends to be.

Finn calls dibs on the largest room, but then, gracious as he is, offers it up to Rey instead. Poe’s more than happy with the one he ends up with; it reminds him of his parents’ place during his childhood days, small but cosy and nostalgic ( _homely_ is the word is avoids). They don’t use their rooms for the first few nights, though—one way or another they end up falling asleep piled up against one another in the living room, in front of a dimly lit fireplace (for Poe’s consideration, he thinks; any flame bigger than that making his heart lurch in a way Rey could most likely sense), if only for the reassurance of company; not being able to stand being apart from one another for even a second. Not that Poe’s complaining, of course, with the way it keeps him grounded to a post-war world he still isn’t quite convinced is real.

The three of them manage, because they're all scavengers down to the bone, but it’s Poe who has to introduce them to the concept of _civility,_ for lack of a better word; until he finds it’s easier that he’s the designated cook in their household before Finn and Rey almost burn down their house in a team effort _again,_ for what must be the _fifth time_ now (he can’t even keep count), not even two weeks into settling in. Rey finds comfort in the structure of housekeeping, which is a godsend because Poe can’t be bothered to pick up after himself over menial things like laundry (his days in the Resistance were enough of a testimonial to that); while Finn finds his calling in putting the ample land they’ve been provided with to good use through gardening, and his look of pure pride and accomplishment when he harbours his first field of produce is everything to Poe.

But even with all of this, the hero’s duty never seems to end, either. Rey more often than not sets out at early hours in the morning, way before Finn or Poe wake up for the day, so Poe makes it a habit to set aside a serving of breakfast for her from the day before, just so she doesn’t leave with an empty stomach, either for Jedi training or simply odd jobs from neighbouring towns. Everyone recognises her, of course, and Rey takes it in stride—Poe has to wonder how she holds up so well, sometimes, because god knows he hasn’t been able to do it as well as she does. Finn’s the most dedicated one towards the central Resistance out of the three of them, now; he’s completely understanding towards Poe’s predicament, of course (or he just doesn’t question it; either way, bless his heart, it’s all he could ask for), but he remains devoted towards his General post alongside Maz, leaving for the Resistance base during the day.

Poe usually ends up alone during the day, if he doesn’t set out towards the neighbouring town as well; and while he prefers it that way sometimes, too much alone time gouges its way into his head. He ends up thinking about people in the Resistance who could’ve used what little expertise he has if he isn’t so bogged down by his own ego all the time. He thinks about _dead heroes, no leaders._ He thinks about Finn and Rey, the two clueless orphans who used to cling onto him for _everything,_ now doing more for the ongoing cause than he ever could. He thinks about falling. He thinks about _dead heroes, no leaders._ He thinks about Finn and Rey. He thinks about _dead heroes._ He thinks about Finn and Rey. He thinks about Finn and Rey. He thinks about Finn and Rey.

And he feels _trapped._ He’s freer than he’s ever been, but he feels _stagnant._ Anchored to the ground by force, even though he thought he would’ve never rather be anywhere else. Even though he still naively clung onto the notion of _home._

(He’s a _pilot._ How could it ever end up any other way?)

So he takes to the sky, of course, the only other place he could go, the only place he’s consistently sought and found comfort in. Finn saves him an X-Wing decommissioned and stripped apart due to “irreplaceable damage” from the Resistance’s scrap processor (of course he did; who else could be as thoughtful as him?) and imposes a challenge onto himself. He would only fly again if he could salvage this, even though anyone from the Resistance would be more than happy to lend him a functional aircraft; not to mention the Millennium Falcon essentially belonging to them, now, but sat in the Resistance base all the same. It’s a senseless restriction, all things considered, but if there’s anything Poe could love more than flying (among others—well, _among other things)_ it’s a challenge that pushes him to his limits.

(Though sometimes he soars from the safety of his garage alone; rather he _floats,_ far away from their homestead; far away from the Resistance; far, far away from Finn and Rey. He floats to an unexplored corner of the galaxy, holding his knees close as he watches himself work at a lost cause.

He catapults back to the ground when Finn or Rey return, and they tether him with fleeting touches and shared smiles; or sometimes he’s still stuck in orbit—no matter how hard he tries to steer himself back—watching himself watching Finn and Rey, watching Finn and Rey watching him. Until the next day rolls around and it’s rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat.)

They get by, as they always do.

* * *

Sometime after settling into this familiarity, Finn has to leave their little homestead for an extended period. For a very good cause, of course—Lando and Jannah’s reached out to him to help rehabilitate several ex-Stormtroopers; deserters that have emerged in the wake of the Final Order’s remnants, with nowhere else to go, with no-one else but each other. The trip’s slated to be just for two weeks, but it feels as if it’s going to be much, much longer than that; probably because it would be the first time, since the end of the war, for the three of them to be apart for so long. It’s a little emotional, all things considered, but the three seemed to have a silent pact not to let it show. Each gaze, hug and lingering touch before Finn left said it all, spoke volumes more than words could have, more than they would've dared to say.

_Be safe. You'll do well. We're thinking of you._

The first week goes by all the same. Their distilled quiet of life is still somewhat difficult to adjust to—at least, on Poe's end, of course—but they get by. Poe has never been as close to Rey as Finn has always been, even with their penchant to bicker over the smallest of things—nowadays more out of affection than a clash of personalities—but Finn’s absence carves that crater between them even more prominently. Poe mostly sticks to his new mission, as Rey continues going about her usual tasks; BB-8 alternates sticking by one or the other’s side, no longer quite "belonging" to Poe (not that the pilot minded, of course). Either way, one of them’s always there to welcome the other when they get home, and they spend the rest of their time conjuring tirades over the most senseless things. It’s a simple, familiar pace that they’ve formed, if only to last them until Finn returns _,_ and Poe imagines neither of them would have it any other way.

Which is why it's all the more peculiar when he starts to notice how quiet Rey's become, oftentimes staying up hours after he's retired into his own quarters. He's always ever known Rey to be confident and headstrong, the spring in her step never absent. He chalks it off as heavy Jedi introspection, or something, at first; but he knows all the same that he's never in a good headspace when he descends into a similar uncharacteristic silence.

(Has he been too caught up in his own head to notice her own plight? What kind of a friend is he?)

It's one and a half weeks into Finn's absence that Poe breaks this silence, but even that's unplanned. It starts with a nightmare, as most midnight disturbances seem to nowadays—nothing unusual, Poe thinks to himself, even as he has to consciously dismiss the increasing frequency he's had them after he's settled down. 

(They all blur into the same thing, one way or another, but this night's a bad one—he dreams of Finn and Rey being stranded on Exegol as the planet collapses in of itself, and he's doing his best to reach them but the terrain's too hazardous and the aircraft's too ill-equipped and his piloting's too shitty but they're right there and they're waiting for him and they're reaching out for him and he—and he—and he _can't—)_

He wakes up with his chest slamming against his ribs and a cry jammed halfway in his throat and his chest clammy with sweat and his eyes burning and he can't—he can't do this right now. He scrambles out of bed, something in the back of his mind conscious about being silent so as to not awaken Rey.

She's already awake, though. But even if she wasn't, she might've sensed his disturbance through the Force, as they say. He barely notices her crouched before the fireplace, staring into the flames flickering _(roaring)_ before her, burning just a little too intense for Poe's comfort; but maybe it's something that calms her. He helps himself to a glass of water, first, then another, and another, then he's drenching his face with water; there's no way she hasn't noticed him by now, but she remains unmoving (for the sake of his dignity, he thinks to himself).

It takes awhile for him to approach her, wondering if it's worth it. He eventually does, however. "Credit for your thoughts?" To his surprise she jolts in place, as if unaware of his presence prior, but her demeanour immediately relaxes when she recognises him.

"Poe—you're up late."

"Yeah, uh, nightmares tend to do that to ya," he hates the way his voice trembles. He settles down next to her, pretending not to notice the sympathetic, no, _empathetic_ look she offers him. "But I could say the same to you."

She makes an affirming noise, but says nothing in return. The intensity of the flames he sits close to makes him feel uneasy, but he decides he can put up with it for the time being. They sit in silence for awhile before she finally entertains him. "Do you ever feel it's strange?"

"Yeah," Poe answers easily, and laughs good-naturedly when Rey shoots him what he's internally dubbed as the _look._

"I haven't even said what yet."

"A lot's strange," Rey shoots him the _look_ again, and Poe can't help his laugh at how adorable she is, "but tell me anyway. What's strange?"

"Well it's strange that," she pauses. He gives her time. "It's strange that the war's over, now."

He can tell she's breaching this conversation with him because she knows he feels the exact same way. "Yeah. Yeah it does, doesn't it? I've been in it my whole life," Poe can't help fiddling with the ring hanging around his neck, not missing the way it catches her eye, "we've all been in it our whole lives. And now it's just— _over._ Everything we fought for. And now we have the luxury of sitting around a little fireplace like this to talk without a care in the world. Yeah, I'd say it's kinda strange."

Rey laughs. "Well, there's a lot to worry about, still."

"Yeah? Like what?"

She ignores his question. "It's strange. Not that it's a bad thing, of course. It's just," she pauses again, as if trying to find the proper words, "it feels as if I should still be on guard. That danger is still around every corner of the galaxy. That Palpatine's out there, still, orchestrating something bigger than we could ever imagine. And that I should be putting a stop to it, somehow. That every second I'm not we're all getting closer to—" she swallows uneasily, "well. You know."

Poe looks over to her, her figure wavering in the firelight; looking as if she would dissolve into nothingness if he blinked too hard. Her forehead is creased, the scar she returned from Exegol with almost illuminated. Her shoulders are tensed; laboured, even, as if she were holding the weight of the galaxy over them, still. Sympathy tugs at his heart. He approaches her silently, placing his hand over her shoulders to massage them lightly, and he doesn't miss the way she jolts again when his hands make contact; but then she relaxes into his touch, and then relaxes entirely into him, so much that he's practically holding her up. She feels oh-so small in his grasp. "Whoa, you okay, sweetheart?"

"Yeah," Rey sighs, but she doesn't get up. "Yeah, I am. I am."

"Really? Because you don't seem like it. Are you tired? You wanna get some rest?"

"That'd be quite nice, actually."

He helps her up, and while she doesn't need his help to return to her room, he hovers by her side until she lays down. He covers the younger girl with her duvet and gets up to leave, but a small, firm grasp on his arm stops him. 

"Stay," Rey says— _pleads,_ almost, in a minuscule voice, and Poe settles back down next to her wordlessly.

The two of them stay in silence, for awhile, Poe lost in his thoughts; when has he—when has _anyone_ ever seen her like this? Has Finn seen her this way? Has she always been like this? Everyone—even himself, he has to admit rather shamefully—has only ever seen her as a brave, noble hero figure—a _Jedi legend—_ so to see her bare herself to him like this, so vulnerable, so _real..._

"Finn gets so worried sometimes," Rey says into the dead of night, so softly he thinks he imagines it at first, breaking his train of thought apart. Poe listens, of course, but he doesn't respond; fearful that he would jolt her out of this moment. "I do love him for it, of course, but I just wish he wouldn't. I don't want him to worry like that anymore. I bet he's worrying even now. I know you do too, but at least you don't show it like he does." And she's right, of course. Finn wears his heart on his sleeve, so earnestly and so fearlessly; Poe's is layered behind walls of his own insecurities (his _shortcomings,_ his _failures—)_

"All I've ever done is make the two of you worry. But things are fine now," she doesn't speak for awhile, and Poe thinks she's drifted off until he hears her speak again, even softer, "I'm fine," but her voice breaks, and she doesn't sound fine, "I really am," and she's trying to hide her sobs into her duvet now, and Poe's quickly curling up next to her, holding her close in his arms, but she doesn't let up; she sobs quietly, still, as if trying to convince herself above everyone else. He just continues to hold her close, all-too aware of just how _defenceless_ she is like this, stroking a hand down the small of her back, whispering soft reassurances to her until her sobs turned into soft hiccups and she finally, finally falls asleep. But he holds her, still, laying awake as he does so for what must be hours on end, his thoughts endless and his heart beating against his chest unevenly, _uncomfortably;_ before he too eventually, as all things do, returns to the night.

(He doesn't have nightmares, this time.)

* * *

Rey's all smiles when Finn returns, racing BB-8 the moment she sees the Millenium Falcon descend onto their yard with Lando and Jannah at its helm; the little astromech beats her, of course, but that doesn't stop her from throwing herself at Finn the moment he steps out of the aircraft, almost toppling the both of them over as they press their foreheads against each others' in an act of pure, unadulterated affection. Poe can't suppress his smile at the sight, doesn't attempt to; he wants to preserve the moment for as long as he can, after all. Eventually Finn catches sight of him from the distance, and his smile grows wider than Poe's ever seen it—both of their smiles do as they look over to him—and he swears his heart stops, swears he could live in this moment forever, just the two of them in his view. The fondness in his chest overwhelms him, and he breaks into a sprint himself; when he reaches the two he really does throw all three of them onto the ground, drowning Jannah's indignant exclamation out with their laughter.

(They don't speak a word about the night to Finn, of course, but it's seared into Poe's head all the same.)

* * *

He doesn’t notice Finn calling out to him until he’s placed a hand onto Poe’s shoulder.

“Finn,” the pilot’s still reeling from his pivot back into the atmosphere, barely registering the look of amusement in the other man’s face (part of him hopes he’s imagining the dash of concern on his face; a bigger part of him hopes he’s not), “buddy. What’s up?”

"You're really into fixing that rickety thing, huh?" Finn teases, and Poe shrugs weakly, content with it being the explanation the other man's come to. He can't even bring himself to fire back at Finn— _her name's Magnolia and she's the finest thing I've laid my hands on, show her some respect._ "How's it holding up?"

"It's, uh, holding up pretty great, actually," the wing panel he's working on _(he's_ the one who did that hack job?) clatters onto the floor on cue, and Finn raises a meagre eyebrow at him.

"Looks worse than the ski speeders on Crait, but whatever you say, greatest pilot in the Resistance."

It's an offhanded remark, but Poe's reminded of _dead heroes_ nonetheless. "You would know, General."

The sound of Finn's laughter lifts the weight in Poe's chest just a little, just enough. "Yeah, yeah. Listen, I—uh, I wanted to tell you something, actually," he pulls up a workbench and sits across Poe in their garage, facing him. Poe sets his tools down, curious.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Remember the thing I was gonna tell Rey back at Pasaana?"

 _Oh._ Well it was a matter of time, wasn't it? "Back when we thought we were all gonna die?" Poe jokes nonetheless, some small part of him praying, another part of him accumulating even more guilt than he thought he could carry.

Finn makes it a point to groan. "Yes, _that_ time."

"No, no, I forgot about that, actually," now Finn's the one sporting what the two men have affectionately dubbed the _Rey look_ (to the Jedi in question's annoyance), and Poe's chest aches despite his laughter, "of course I remember, you dolt. So you told her about it?"

"I did, yeah."

Great. So that's over with, Poe thinks. Great, great, _great._ "Great, buddy. I'm glad for you, I really am." He gives Finn's shoulder a couple of pats, deliberately returning to the piece of scrap next to him, doing just about anything else to ignore the chasm forming in his chest.

"Thanks—wait, that's—how'd you know what I was gonna say?"

"I mean, it's pretty obvious, Finn, you're like an open book," even the confused look Finn's giving him is so _(lovingly_ and _hurtfully)_ palpable it's unreal, "I'm happy for you guys, really. But I gotta get back to this."

"Oh. Okay. Sorry." A pause. "So you're not—you're not _upset_ or anything?"

 _Upset?_ That brings pause to Poe yet again, as he turns back to Finn. "What? Why would I be?" Finn almost sounds like a child, saying that. _Hurt,_ maybe, but _upset?_ How could he ever be upset at the two of them? Does Finn know about his own feelings? Unless—unless _Poe's_ the one who's confused, here. "Wait—what were you gonna tell me?"

"I wanted to tell you that I'm—" Finn hesitates, "I'm Force sensitive."

 _Oh_. 

"It's why I've been going out with Rey a lot, lately," Finn quickly says, "she's been giving me Force training and all of that. Not—not to be a Jedi, yet, maybe, but just so I can put my powers to good use. I wanted to tell you, I really did, but I didn't know if that was a good idea or not, because of—because of what happened to you, with Ren."

Oh. Oh, oh, _oh._ It's like the wind knocked out of Poe's chest, and he wants to laugh and cry all at once. _Of course_ it was about him being Force sensitive. _Of course_ the first thing he worries about is hurting Poe. The pilot can't pretend that the thought doesn't strike him, of course—how the man in front of him could possess such volatile power, how that power was once used against him when it was in the wrong hands—but it's such a fleeting thought in comparison to the utter adoration Finn floods him with. How could Finn and Rey regard him with such _kindness?_ How could he ever think that they would _hurt_ him? How could Poe feel this _f_ _ond_ towards two individuals? 

(How could he have thought of such a thing to begin with? And why did he react the way he did?)

Poe must react strangely, or unexpectedly, because Finn quickly scrambles to say more. "I don't ever wanna hurt you like that—well, I don't wanna hurt anyone like that. I'm sorry that I hid it from you, I really am. But when I just think about what Ren did—and what I could do to you and Rey if I don't learn how to use the Force properly—" His voice begins to wobble, to Poe's surprise, and then Poe's scrambling to speak, too.

"Oh, Finn, no. You won't hurt me like that. You could _never_ hurt me, hurt either of us like that," he cups the other man's face with one hand, catching a stray tear with his thumb, and he can't help thinking to himself how easily he could kiss the other man, right now.

"I know," Finn manages a laugh, "I know that, deep down. I wouldn't ever let myself do that. But it still scares me, y'know? I'm afraid of what I can do. I want to protect you and Rey, like how you've protected me. I don't want to be afraid anymore."

(But Poe doesn't kiss him, right then, because he's afraid.)

"You don't have to be," Poe affirms, "not when we're here with you," and Finn's laughing again, this time freely through his tears, placing his hands over Poe's own and pressing them against his face—Poe would've flushed if he hadn't already been smiling from ear to ear as well, "Rey and I are always brave for you, whenever you can't be."

When the moment's passed, Finn gives Poe the _Rey look_ again. "Wait, so what did you think I was gonna say earlier?" He asks dubiously. Poe can't help the _ridiculous_ cackle which escapes him in response, absolutely taking the other man aback.

"I'll tell you next time."

"Oh, so you're doing it to _me_ this time?"

* * *

One way or another, by some means of a miracle, Poe finishes the aircraft. He doesn't even wait to tell Finn and Rey before he takes off into the skies.

Magnolia rattles in the telltale way aircrafts do when they're on the absolute verge of falling apart; he can hear her parts grinding precariously against each other, but the wind blowing against his face is louder and much more welcome. He thinks— _knows_ he's being undeniably reckless and just plain _stupid,_ at this point, but he's still somehow surprised to find out that he doesn't care, that he lives more for winning his stupid bet over himself—take that, Poe, you absolute fool!—and that he lives more for the adrenaline and thrill pumping through his veins.

He's also still somehow surprised when Magnolia lurches and dives into the ocean of trees below them.

He doesn't even make it out of the planet, but he didn't expect to, much less was he even prepared to. Poe knows a faulty aircraft by heart, and crashing comes as easily to him as it does a kid tripping onto the curb. It doesn't make it hurt any less, however— _much more_ than a kid scraping his knee.

By the time he comes to, it must've been the next day. He can't tell, really. All he thinks of at first is the way he was thrown off the Imperial aircraft way back in Jakku and being unable to find Finn. Except he's alone, this time. Well, not really. He swears under his breath; what was he thinking—well, he wasn't, really, but—Finn and Rey must've been worried sick, and with the way he's been acting lately they surely didn't have faith in him coming back in one piece if he's been gone for more than a day. He really couldn't be anymore idiotic than this, could he?

He tries to clamber out of Magnolia—poor girl only salvaged to fulfil his egoistic desires, he thinks, she would've done much better in the scrap processor after all—but a sharp pain shoots up his side, and he immediately leans back into his seat, wincing. He doesn't think he's broken anything—sprained something, more likely—but given the way he's crumpled in the aircraft, he doesn't think he can assess the damage beyond—

"Well, I'm fucked."

Did he _at least_ bring a comlink with him? Of course not. Finn and Rey are going to kill him, for sure.

(Maybe, just maybe, he was trying to get away.)

He's tired. He's so, _so_ tired. He closes his eyes, attempting to will the pounding against his skull away.

(Tired of what? He hasn't been doing much of anything at all, really. What _was_ there to do? The war was over. Everything he fought for was over. _His entire life_ felt like it had been over. But what exactly was so wrong with that? That _was_ what he fought for, wasn't it? So why has he felt nothing but emptiness since? Why does everything feel wrong, instead? Why is he looking for any given moment to do things over, even though he should be happy with what he has now? Why does he feel so _trapped?_

But he doesn't know anything at all. He never has.)

He sinks back into unconsciousness almost too easily.

* * *

He doesn't know how long more has passed, but he's roused by the voices of Finn and Rey calling out his name.

"Poe!"

_Shit._

He's barely given the time to pull himself together and prepare himself for a beating before they reach him, pulling apart the remnants of Magnolia to unearth him.

"What were you thinking!?" It's Rey that starts first, forehead creased and eyes alight with rage—and concern, unmistakably, he can't possibly deny it—but all the excuses died on his tongue and all he can think about is how happy he is to see her face again. Oh, Rey. 

"Yeah, I—I wasn't, really thinking, actually..." He winces when she holds onto his arm and attempts to yank him outward—she notices immediately, of course, and reddens at her impulsiveness, her grip immediately softening. "But, ah, I'm peachy, guys. Really."

The disgruntled huff he hears right after belongs to Finn. "Up yours, Poe," the man really has a way with words. Oh, Finn.

Eventually Poe manages to clamber out of the ship with all his bodily pain in tow, taking a moment to glace back at it—it's not the worst crash he's seen, or been in, but it's certainly foolish to believe that aircraft could be salvaged again after that; rest in pieces, Magnolia—but he's caught by surprise when he's trapped in a tight embrace by Finn and Rey. The aches permeating his body dulls.

"We were so _worried,_ _"_ it's Rey that speaks first, her voice immediately cracking, "worried that you were— _you were—"_

"I'm fine," Poe reassures her, but his words sound empty even to himself; a wave of guilt washes over him. How _idiotic_ could he have been, really? "I'm okay, Rey. I'm sorry. I really don't know what I was thinking. I won't do it again."

 _"You're not okay,"_ there's something about Finn's words that strains at his chest, as the other man pulls back from their collective hug to stare into his eyes. Poe avoids his gaze, guilty (about what?). "Look, Poe, we both know you haven't been doing well, lately. You do a lot of stupid things, but this isn't one of it. You know this ship couldn't be saved, and that it would've led to this. I shouldn't have let you—" Finn's voice cracks this time, and he immediately turns away from him, if only to hide the glint at the corner of his eyes, "I knew, and I shouldn't have let you done this. You could've been hurt. You could've been—"

"No, no, it's not—it's not your fault," Poe scrambles quickly, "it was me, I should've been—I should've been honest with the both of you. It's just I—" he swallows; the words are still difficult to manage, "I—I don't know. Things have been difficult. But I'll be okay, really. Things are better now, aren't they," he manages a laugh, "the war's over. The Resistance won. I'm just feeling a bit low, or something."

"Poe, you know better than anyone of us that war doesn't just _end_ like that," Rey's right, of course, but he doesn't want to hear it, he doesn't. "not for us. It's okay if—it's okay if you're not feeling the same after everything. It's okay to feel like this."

 _Yeah, but not for me,_ he thinks, and says as much to them.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Finn questions him, almost bewildered, and Poe manages a painful smile. The guilt's bubbling up in his throat, suffocating him, now, and he can almost feel his breath coming in short.

"I—I don't _know,"_ he utters, because he really, _really_ doesn't, he thinks, and then it spills over him all at once as he crouches onto the ground, curling his palms into fists and pressing them against his face, as if trying to suppress—suppress— _something._ But there's no use when he's letting everything out, now. Finn and Rey quickly follow suit, crouching down next to him, hovering uneasily next to him. "I—I should be okay, really, I've lost people but I haven't lost what's important, things should be _okay,_ but everything still feels _wrong._ I keep thinking of," tears prick the corners of his eye, now, "I keep thinking of everyone we've lost, instead, I keep thinking of Holdo and Snap and Leia and everyone else. I shouldn't have let that happen. I don't want this. I don't feel like I can have this when they're not here.

"And I'm scared of losing _both of you,_ still," he ends up admitting through a series of sobs, and he doesn't resist when Finn and Rey envelop him into another hug; he lets himself fall into it, even. "I've fucked up so much, I—I don't deserve the both of you. I don't deserve to _love the both of you._ I'm going to fuck up and lose you two, and it'll be my fault, again. Like Holdo and Snap and Leia and— _and—"_

By then he breaks down completely, almost wailing into the other two's holds, and they say nothing in return, in a silent _understanding—_ they knew, of course, what he meant, what he was going through, similarly if not the same way. He doesn't know which one of them press gentle kisses against his tears; he doesn't know which one of them whisper _we love you too, we love you beyond words_ in the midst of his ebbing sobs. 

He doesn't notice the way the burden in his chest's lifted, yet, but he will.

* * *

"I can sense your fear, still. What're you so afraid of?"

He can't really hide anything from the two of them, anymore, can he? Not that he cares to, right now. Not that he ever wants to, from now on. They push him in all sorts of ways, but not against the walls he's built; which crumble so easily in their presence.

 _I'm afraid of so many things,_ he wants to say, _I'm afraid of not messing up, again. I'm afraid of not being good enough. I'm afraid of not being brave enough to tell you these things._

_I'm afraid of getting close to you._

Hands cup the sides of his face; in the darkness, he recognises the callouses on their fingertips. Lips press against his own, slow, tender, loving; yet desperate and needy all the same—or maybe it's him that's desperate and needy, groaning against them and pushing back with a ferocity he never knew he possessed, with a passion he'd never experienced with past lovers or flings; the way the lips laugh against his own confirms this. His heart unravels in his chest, the way it only does when he's with them.

It's been a long time coming, after all, he thinks.

Hands run down his bare chest, tender, careful. Tracing the scars he's amassed during a more distance time in the Resistance. Curious and concerned, but not prodding.

_But most of all, I'm afraid of losing you._

"You won't."

The two words are spoken with utmost conviction; he wants more than anything else to believe in them.

(He will, someday, he's sure of it.)

_Sometimes I'm just afraid. I don't know what of, really._

Lips flutter over his neck and down to his collarbone, nipping down hard. Poe can't help the moan that escapes him. A hand tugs at the waistband of his shorts, needy; then, almost—no, most definitely impatient, slides into and down his inner thigh in a swift, brash manner.

"The two of you are kind of making it hard for me to think, right now," he half-laughs a weightless laugh, half-hisses.

"Then don't think."

"You don't have to think all the time. Just feel."

_Just feel us._

So he does.

* * *

Poe wakes up in a tangle of limbs.

It's a familiar scene—sunlight trickling into the bedroom from in-between curtains hand-sewn by Rose as a housewarming gift. He blinks slowly, drowsiness still weighing down on him, the first dreamless night he's had in a long time. When he attempts to rub his face to rouse himself, he finds his hand gently grasped in Rey's arms, the woman herself fast asleep, still. Finn is pressed close against his other side, snoring lightly. He thinks this is his dream, at first, given how serene—how much _at peace_ he feels, and how much he's waiting for it to turn sour suddenly; but then Rey stirs, meeting his eyes with a half-lidded gaze.

"G'morning, Poe," she mumbles, drawing his arm closer to her, pressing his palm against her face, as if sensing his concern. Her eyes projecting nothing but affection towards him.

"G'morning," he returns after a few beats, still in a daze. He rubs a strand of hair away from her face with his thumb; she's already falling back asleep, like this. But the dreaded question weighs on his tongue, still— _is any of this real?_

"Go back to sleep, Poe," Finn drawls into his side, leaning his head into the hollow of Poe's collarbone. Poe's stunned for a moment, before the fondness blooming in his chest overwhelms him, and he reaches to press his lips against Finn's forehead, earning a satisfied sound from the other man.

So he doesn't fight the tiredness, shuts his eyes. Truth be told, he wants to lie awake a little longer; to preserve this moment as long as his consciousness will allow it. But he doesn't need to worry about that, right now. Not when they're with him. Not when they'll be with him, for awhile; for more than awhile, even.

He's home, after all.


End file.
